


Everything's Terrible

by Hollow_Vessel



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Void stuff, depressso wyrm, how do tags work again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28114749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollow_Vessel/pseuds/Hollow_Vessel
Summary: Wyrm fic? Sad wyrm fic. Will involve NKG and probably cutting off wings who knows
Relationships: The Pale King/White Lady (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Everything's Terrible

The cup of coffee atop the carved desk was cold. Unsurprisingly, as everything in his office was, it was no different for the mug that he had set on his desk 5- 10… 15? 15 minutes ago. Gaze fixed upon it for perhaps a moment that dragged on longer than necessary, the Pale Wyrm would let out a sigh. As he lifted it up, he wondered how many more times he would order a retainer to reheat it for him before he either gave up, or finally willed himself to drink it and force away any last hint of sleep that tugged at his mind.   
His third attempt at having a warm cup of coffee. His 80th hour of evading slumber. And it was only 8 am. Many more tasks filled his schedule for the day. Enough to make him wish he was anything but the king of this land, despite it having been what he had worked so hard for. Toiled for, sacrificed for. It was.. Tiring, especially now...

He did not want to leave his office, despite the large palace he had built from the dirt up around himself. Wyrms were more often than not, solitary creatures who lived in dark, cold places, far from where any prying eyes could gaze upon them. Being within sight of others, it always made the wyrm squirm in terrible, horrible discomfort. And what use was a leader who felt too uncomfortable among his own subjects to even interact with them?   
Yes, he was a higher being, they knew that, he knew that. But he still felt, that while he did not desire interaction, that it made him less of a king. How could they see him? He was held on a pedestal, but for what? His gift to them, it felt like nothing in comparison to the things they had made and crafted under his guidance. He was undeserving of such a kingdom. Perhaps that was why he was destined to lose it. Those thoughts, usually suppressed, seemed to run amok in his mind the longer he tried to avoid the inevitable sleep before him. 

Sleeping was not something that he particularly enjoyed. Especially with the knowledge that he had, of the connotation of dreams in their entirety of concept. He did not want anything to do with her. He had to stop her. The mere idea of entering her realm, however temporary, however obscure a plain of it, was deeply sickening to the wyrm. Or perhaps that was due to the fact that the only thing he had ingested in the past few days was likely coffee, or perhaps a biscuit.   
...Regardless, he had clear ideas and morals about dreams. They were not to be enjoyed.. Such would be a complete disrespect to those who had fallen to the realm and its ruler. And the wyrm, he would give anything for his people. He would force himself to, there was no cost too great. This was the culmination of his efforts, and he would not let it all go to waste. He would not allow himself to drift off, and lie vulnerable and comfortable within his nest, while those around him, those who depended on him 

He would pay any price to save them. Give anything to preserve the kingdom.

…

…  
…  
...  
Perhaps too much, perhaps too much. That’s what his wife told him. Well, not told. The White Lady was not so blatant with her words, never so crude or so blunt as to tell him outright that he was wrong or that he had done bad... The topic never really arose between the two. Nor did any topics, really. But they each knew that the other felt a certain way. Guilt was the common denominator in their spiral of a relationship. The wyrm knew from the blurbs of conversations that they rarely held. She despised him, but was too well mannered to say it to him. Every empty word of affection she had muttered to him had killed him a little more inside. 

That was before. Now it was… now. She would never tell him how she truly felt. He was left to wallow in the guilt of knowing, feeling how she felt but never truly knowing. He could never bring himself to bring it up to her. She wouldn’t want to speak with him anyways… Not anymore. He wouldn’t want to talk to himself if he were in her position, so he understood. 

The distance between the two of them was uncomfortable in many ways. She, once so kind and warm, now he could feel her disposition towards him. It was warranted. He had done many bad deeds. He deserved it. That didn’t make him feel any better, however. He knew that he should accept it. But she, he...

He..

He fumbled, stepped on his robe on the way to his office door, dropped the fragile glassware. Straight onto the ground. His mind had been too full for the wyrm to even see the obvious path of time that showed just this event occurring. Time seemed to slow as he watched the cold liquid hit the floor, as the piece of glass shattered into tiny shards, that dispersed in the air and landed in a chaotic formation, of which he could discern no pattern. When time progressed past the standstill, each individual shard of glass had landed and settled, and each and every molecule of liquid had found a resting point.

The King watched for a moment. Two moments, three. One could likely hear the gears churning in his mind as he processed.

...When had he even picked up his mug? 

He would blink slowly in thought, before sighing, turning back around, and sitting in his chair. His wings would twitch beneath the light covers over them as he settled, tail hanging off the seat, below an armrest. He would lean his head down into his hands, letting the weight of his horns sit there. Even resting in his favorite place to sit, the silence rang uncomfortably. It was where he had once thrived. Now it was where he merely grit his teeth and wore through each day.

Like every day, he had many obligations that he ought to get to sooner than later.

Like every other day, he was tired. Perhaps in a different way than the tiredness that sleep deprivation brought about. A tiredness that almost seemed tangible.

Like the day before, and the day before that, and even the day before that, he did not wish to get up from his chair.

Most… Terrible, as the past few months, and the discernable future, he felt truly and utterly alone.

...But there were things that needed to be done today.

There was coffee on the floor, and if he did not clean it, then the floor would grow sticky, and he would not want to stand on that spot, nor would he want to drag his robes nor his tail over it. And so he knew that he would have to have something done about it. But did he wish to?   
It was a small issue compared to the large, still accumulating pile of problems that he was to sort through. Coffee. Thinking about that issue instead of the numerous others, perhaps it was a way to cope. One might say that. One might say it was a mere farse, a lie, one might phrase it as.

Though, a problem was a problem, no matter how simple or easy to ascertain the answer was. That is what he told himself. Though there was a logic in it, to pick apart the smallest issues and so therefore the tapestry of problems (that he had weaved) would slowly become undone. And then it was a matter of tossing out the scraps of yarn…  
There was much to ponder. But days had numbered hours, and the wyrm knew that he would have to leave his office sometime. And whether he liked it or willed it or not, the coffee on the floor would not be there by day’s end.

With a huff and an exasperated groan, the wyrm put his head down upon his chilled desk. He would allow his eyes to skip closed. Just for a moment, a moment he told himself. This was a common trap, he knew. The wyrm half-willedly opened his eyes, for he knew that if he did not will himself to move now, that he may give in and simply not for, who knew how long.   
And then he didn’t. He wouldn’t move outside of minute twitches from his wings, and tail. 

His plates would bristle slightly, before settling along his back and neck in a supposedly more comfortable way, and he would slowly give in, allow his eyes to close, take in slow and steady breaths to convince his fickle mind that all was well in the moment. He could always clean up later, he figured.   
...When he wasn’t so tired.


End file.
